


on the eve of sunrise

by SerenLyall



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon compliant character deaths, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 18:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19301641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLyall/pseuds/SerenLyall
Summary: Glorfindel corners Ecthelion after dinner.“May we speak?” he asks the dark-haired nér.Ecthelion takes one look at Glorfindel’s face—grim and somber, his blue eyes as flat and worried as he has ever seen them, even in the most dire days and nights on the Ice—and nods.





	on the eve of sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> I am now in glorthelion hell. Join me and my Feelings. We have nothing but fun here, of course...
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

~on the eve of sunrise~

Glorfindel corners Ecthelion after dinner.

“May we speak?” he asks the dark-haired nér.

Ecthelion takes one look at Glorfindel’s face—grim and somber, his blue eyes as flat and worried as he has ever seen them, even in the most dire days and nights on the Ice—and nods. “Of course,” he says, and leads the way out of the large dining hall and down into Gondolin’s gardens. 

They do not speak as they walk, instead moving in companionable silence, footsteps in sync against the cobblestones. They swing through the back entrance to the gardens—the one nearest to the lords’ dining hall—going through the kitchen gardens, then through the orchards, until at last they come to the gardens proper. 

Low, stone walls covered in flowering vines line the pathways, then climb in height when the pathways widen into broad, open areas that are filled with flowerbeds, statues, and fountains. The tinkling play of water against marble basins resonates through the perfume-laden air, mingling with the trilling of birds as they bid farewell to the day and settle down to roost in tree and bush.

Glorfindel draws Ecthelion to a halt in the midst of a rose garden. The blossoms are a myriad of colors, each bleeding into the next—reds into oranges, oranges into yellows, yellows into purples, purples into peaches, peaches into creams, and then creams back into reds—and they fill the air with a sweet scent. A fountain plays at the center of the garden, ringed by benches. It is to one of these benches that Glorfindel guides Ecthelion. He sits, and then waits patiently for his friend to follow suit.

“Rather romantic place you have brought us,” Ecthelion comments wryly, seating himself with a billow of his outer robe.

Glorfindel smiles but does not laugh as Ecthelion had predicted. Instead, he hesitates—another peculiarity, for it is unlike Glorfindel to hesitate in anything—and then says softly, “Yes, well, that is what I wished to speak with you about.”

Coldness washes through Ecthelion, starting from the crown of his head before trickling down his throat, pooling in his belly, then settling down into the soles of his feet.

“Oh?” he asks, fighting to keep from sounding breathless with fear, with anxiety, with...hope?

“Yes,” Glorfindel says, and he looks uncomfortable. “Perhaps the rose garden was a bit on the nose, but…A ercát,” he curses, then gathers himself. “I am in love with you, Ecthelion,” Glorfindel says slowly, purposefully, with more care than Ecthelion has heard him say  _ anything. _ “I have been for centuries—since the Ice, I think, though I know not when my care for you became something  _ more _ . But I love you, and I understand that you do not love me in return, but Tuor said—well, what Tuor said is of no consequence, you only need know that I love you, and that I felt the need to tell you, regardless of how that might affect our friendship, for I could not continue to hide my true feelings.”

He says this all in one breath, though his words do not sound rushed, nor do they trip over themselves. Instead he speaks precisely and somberly—no child confessing his first crush, no hopeful lover confessing his first true love. 

Ecthelion smiles. “Ah,” he says, not entirely sure how to respond. “I see.”

Glorfindel turns his gaze away. “I understand if you are angry,” he says softly. “But I could keep my silence no longer. It was devouring me, Ecthelion. It was becoming unbearable, not knowing…” He trails off into silence, staring up at the fading remnants of the day still coloring the sky rose and orange.

“You know,” says Ecthelion slowly, “Tuor said something similar to me.”

Glorfindel’s gaze snaps to Ecthelion. “What?” he asks, and he  _ does _ sound breathless. “What do you mean?” he asks, and there is a dangerous note in his tone.

“Tuor came to me,” Ecthelion says, “and he bade me tell you my true feelings. ‘Else’, he said, ‘someday you will come to regret your reticence, for it may draw too late.’”

“What feelings?” Glorfindel asked, sounding weak.

“I too am in love with you, Glorfindel,” Ecthelion admitted with a small smile. “I have been since the rising of the Sun. Seeing you in the light of the Day for the first time—that was when I knew I loved you.”

“Oh,” says Glorfindel very softly. Then again, “Oh.”

Ecthelion’s smile grows. “Does knowing I love you back change your affections?”

“No!” Glorfindel exclaims. “No, not at all. I just never dreamed—I mean, I had dreamed, but I never thought…” He trails off again, blushing slightly. “No,” he finishes. “No, it changes nothing—nothing but gives me hope.”

They are silent for a long moment, watching each other and listening to the fading birdsong. Then Ecthelion asks, “What now?”

“Now,” says Glorfindel slowly, “I think we decide what we want to do next.”

“What are our options?”

“We can continue on as we have been,” says Glorfindel, “pretending that this conversation never took place. We can continue to serve our lord and king as we have been, with no interruption, with no changes.

“Or we could see what this could be,” he says. “We could see if there is any real potential in a relationship between the two of us—see if the love we harbor is enough to bear us up and through trials and tribulations, or if it was nothing more than a passing fancy.”

“It has lasted for centuries now,” Ecthelion points out. “For the both of us. I doubt it is some passing fancy.”

“True,” Glorfindel accedes, “but we do not know if the love is strong enough to support a relationship.”

“You speak truly,” Ecthelion says slowly with a slight nod. “There is only one way to find out if our love  _ is _ strong enough to support a relationship, however—and that is to try it.”

“Then you think we should?”

“I did not say that,” says Ecthelion slowly, though the hope that has burgeoned in his chest is warm, is hot, is fluttering and insisting it be heard. “But I think it must be considered. There is no other way to know what will come if we do not try.”

Glorfindel’s eyes gleam in the low light. Night has truly fallen now. Ithil has yet to rise, and the servants have yet to come light the lamps in the gardens, leaving the only glow to come from the palace stretching above their heads in the distance. It is distant and smudged, yellow and orange, and it highlights Glorfindel’s hair in a sheen of gold, illuminating his bright, blue eyes in slivers. 

“So?” Glorfindel asks. “What do we do?”

Ecthelion shifts on the bench, then rises. He turns his back to Glorfindel and stares up at the stars just beginning to show their silver eyes out from the darkened heavens. “Now we must weigh the good versus the bad,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back and turning once more to face Glorfindel. “Now we must decide if it is worth the risk to try to be...whatever we may become to one another.”

“You think it is not worth it?” Glorfindel asks warily.

Ecthelion shakes his head, trying to ignore the hot, hot hope spreading like fire through his veins. “I did not say that,” he says. “I only think we should be...cautious. We do not wish to upset the two of the ruling houses of Gondolin. If we were to part ways on bad terms, or to grow resentful of one another, then that could spell disaster for Aran Turgon, as well as Gondolin.”

“True,” Glorfindel admits. “Or, if things were to work between us, then the House of the Golden Flower and the House of the Fountain could be united and stronger than ever.”

“If.”

“Why are you being so pessimistic?” Glorfindel demands, suddenly angry. “Do you not wish to even  _ try _ ?”

“I am trying to be  _ careful _ ,” Ecthelion retorts. “Two  _ ellyn _ in our positions could spell trouble if we were to play our cards wrong.”

“So now our relationship is a game of cards? A political move? Political machinations?”

“No, of course not!” Ecthelion exclaims. He sighs, then runs a hand over his hair. “I only meant that...that we do need to be  _ careful _ , Glorfindel. Surely you see that.”

Glorfindel slumps back onto the bench. “You are right,” he says dully. “I know you are right. That is partly why I am so angry,” he admits. “I want what  _ I _ want for once, not what is necessarily best for our people.”

“And what do you want, Glorfindel?” Ecthelion asks.

Glorfindel rises, smooth and graceful and abrupt, and crosses the distance between them in one long stride. Before Ecthelion can react, Glorfindel has pressed his lips to Ecthelion’s in a fierce, but surprisingly gentle, kiss. He draws away before Ecthelion can respond, blushing once more.

“That is what I want,” he says hoarsely, and then turns and walks purposefully away.

“Wait!” Ecthelion calls, hurrying after him. “Glorfindel,  _ wait. _ ”

Glorfindel hesitates in the mouth of the pathway out of the garden, heading back towards the palace. He turns to face Ecthelion, moving swiftly to catch up to him.

“You act as if that is not what I wish as well,” Ecthelion says, drawing to a halt beside Glorfindel.

“Is it not?”

“It is,” says Ecthelion. “I am only more cautious by nature than you are—at least when it comes to matters of the heart. Thus why  _ you  _ were the one to begin this conversation.”

Glorfindel cants his head to one side, considering. “This is true,” he says. “And between the two of us, I have always been the more brash.”

Ecthelion laughs at this. “One of your charms,” he admits.

Glorfindel grins.

“I want this,” Ecthelion tells Glorfindel then. “I want this more than I have ever wanted anything.”

“Truly?” Glorfindel asks, eyebrows rising.

“Truly,” Ecthelion replies—and then, leaning in, he presses his lips against Glorfindel’s in a mirror to their kiss from a moment before, only this time it is sweet and kind and warm rather than fierce.

Glorfindel softens beneath Ecthelion’s hands, which rise to rest upon his shoulders. He kisses Ecthelion back, parting his lips slightly beneath Ecthelion’s, allowing Ecthelion’s tongue to press into his mouth. Their kiss deepens, and deepens again, until Ecthelion lifts a hand and presses his palm to Glorfindel’s cheek.

When they part, it is to panting breaths and smiles.

“I want this,” Ecthelion says. “I want  _ you _ .”

“So,” says Glorfindel, “what do we do?”

Ecthelion shrugs. “We have time,” he says. “We can take things slowly; we can take things as slowly as we want. If it seems as if we are straying too far towards hostility, we can always draw back and reassess.”

Glorfindel smiles. “Very well. Then we are doing this?” he asks. “Really, truly? We are doing this?”

Ecthelion smiles. “I do not see why not,” he says. “So long as Aran Turgon does not have any qualms.”

“We can speak to him about it in the morning, after breakfast and the sunrise celebration.”

“Good idea,” Ecthelion says. He hesitates, then says, “Good night then, Glorfindel. I will see you in the morning.”

Glorfindel opens his mouth to return the farewell, then closes it. “Must we part ways so soon?” he asks.

Ecthelion frowns, then shakes his head. “No,” he says slowly. “I see no reason why we should.”

Glorfindel extends a hand, and Ecthelion takes it.

“Let us walk the gardens and enjoy their beauty this night,” says Glorfindel. “I have been told they look different if one is with the one they love.”

Ecthelion snorts. “You never were a poet,” he teases Glorfindel.

“More a poet than you,” Glorfindel retorts easily. “All you can do is play the flute.”

Ecthelion laughs, light and bright, and they begin to walk, hand-in-hand, through the gardens.

They spend the night this way, speaking together and laughing, happy and content. Ithil rises and sets, and Varda’s raiment glitters coldly overhead, ever-watchful, ever-present. Glorfindel and Ecthelion pay her eyes no mind, instead enraptured by their own company.

Sunrise draws near, and Glorfindel and Ecthelion turn their feet towards the eastern-most gate of Gondolin. There they find their king and fellow lords of Gondolin already gathered, along with much of Turgon’s court. Turgon sees their clasped hands and smiles a secret smile, but says nothing.

They turn toward the east, awaiting the sunrise, voices bound and waiting to greet the day.

Only the light does not rise first in the east that day—it rises in the west, and with it comes fire and brimstone.

And Ecthelion and Glorfindel, by sunset, are dead.


End file.
